Heather Graham - Dark Rites

So. Figure, yes, figure—that was safe to say. The figure coming toward him was wearing something like a KKK outfit—only it was bloodred and trimmed with strange black markings.

“Ah, Professor! You are awake—ready to join us!” the figure said.

It spoke; it moved. It appeared to be human.

Man.

Alex fought for reason and reaction—for the ability to move his mouth and form words.

“Join what? Who are you? Why am I here?” he managed to ask.

The man came closer.

“I am the high priest,” the man told him. His face was more or less covered by a mask that appeared to be loosely connected to his conical red hood. Alex could see the man’s eyes, though. They weren’t burning red or anything—they were just dark brown.

“I am the high priest, Professor, and you will join with us.”

Alex blinked. It would be laughable if it weren’t for...

For the chains that held him.

For the headless body that lay crumpled in the corner, with rats destroying it.

“I’m sorry, join with you for...what?”

“The resurrection.”

“The resurrection of what?”

“You, sir, are not just going to join us, you see. You are going to help us!” the high priest said.

“Help you...?”

“Well, we’re going to bring Satan to earth, sir! More specifically, we’re going to bring Satan to Boston. And you, Professor, are the man with the knowledge to help us do it.”

He couldn’t see the man’s mouth, but he was sure that he smiled.

Did this dude know how ridiculous his words were?

“Yes, you are the man!”

What if I refuse?

Alex wasn’t exactly an atheist. He considered himself a deist, believing in a higher power, but not in all the myth that went along with it—through any religion.

Satan wasn’t real to Alex, and, therefore, he couldn’t be summoned.

But...

He didn’t bother to ask what happened to him if he refused. He knew.

He could see the instruments of medicine, surgery—and torture.

He could see the rat-riddled body in the corner.

“How intriguing,” he said. “I assume you believe that I will somehow be able to find the proper rites and means by which to do this through historical research?”

“Oh, yes. You see, Satan has come to Massachusetts before,” the high priest said. “You will bring him again.”

“Great challenge!” Alex said, trying to put some enthusiasm into his words.

Find me, Vickie, find me, for the love of God. Yes, there is some kind of a God, I do believe that, Vickie, find me, find me...

The high priest spoke, apparently accepting Alex’s words.

“Indeed! Yes, hail Satan! He has lived among us before. Through you, he will return. All hail! Satan shall return!” The high priest stepped forward, a key in his hand. He was going to free Alex.

Free, if he was free...

He was skinny, but he was no weakling. He could try to overpower this man...

“Hail Satan! Hail Satan!”

It was a chant. Alex looked up; there were several people there now, in the doorway to the old operating room. They were all in the red capes and masked hoods.

He could not fight...

“Come, brother!” the high priest said. “We will initiate you by letting you witness our sacrifice!”

He was going to see a sacrifice. Please, let it be a chicken! he thought.

It wasn’t going to be a chicken.

He suddenly found prayer, prayers he had known as a kid.

Please God, he prayed silently, don’t let the sacrifice be me.

* * *

“Vickie!”

Griffin suddenly came bursting into the room, pushing past the unknown man who had stood in the doorway when it had opened.

“Oh! Oh! Ohhhhhhhh!” Vickie cried.

She felt like an absolute idiot—no idea what to do, how to react. She was sitting on the sofa, naked and in heels, and Griffin was with Craig Rockwell, one of Griffin’s closest friends—and coworker!

A man she had met just once!

Pillow! She grabbed a pillow and pressed it before her.

Griffin was doing his best to block her, and Rocky and Devin Lyle were backing away, excusing themselves awkwardly—and laughing, certainly.

She wanted to disappear. To sink beneath the floorboards.

Vickie could hear herself talking, garbling out something. Griffin was talking...his friends were apologizing as they moved back into the hall...and she was backing her way into the bedroom.

In the bedroom she grabbed a robe from the closet and slipped into it as fast as humanly possible. By then, Griffin had reached the room. She started in on him furiously. “Why didn’t you call me, why didn’t you let me know, why...”

She couldn’t help it; she let him have it with a pillow.

“Hey!” he protested, catching the pillow. And she saw that he was almost smiling. His dark eyes shining in his rugged face, drawing her in and almost making her forget her embarassment.

Almost.

She got another pillow and let it fly.

“I just wasn’t expecting such a greeting!”

“Oh! Your friends! Your work associates. Your professional work associates!” Vickie said, shaking her head. “Oh, my God. What must they think? Oh!”

Griffin pulled her tight against him, smoothed back her hair and looked down into her eyes. And now he was smiling. “They’re thinking I’m the luckiest man in the world,” he told her.

He kissed her—a tender kiss, a great kiss. She wanted to forgive him.

Her level of humiliation was just a little too high.

“They’re still out there, right?”

“I think they’re standing awkwardly in the hall, maybe trying to leave...”

“You can’t...you can’t just leave people in the hall. Or make them leave. I mean, you—get out to the parlor. Go. Try to...oh, I don’t even know what you can try to do. When I can, I’ll come out.”

“They’ll leave. They won’t mind.”

“No!”

“But after everything you did for me, your preparation...”

“Out!”

“Got it. I’m on it,” Griffin assured her.

“I’ll never be able to face them if I don’t face them now!” Vickie said.

He left her, heading on out to the parlor. During the moments the bedroom door was open, Vickie could see that his Krewe friends hadn’t stayed in the apartment; they were out in the hallway waiting. Or they had left altogether.

She could also see that Griffin was still smiling. She felt like crawling beneath the floorboards.

But as much as she wanted to, she knew that she couldn’t hide out in her room forever.

Vickie slid into jeans and a T-shirt, and stood in front of the mirror again. Totally unsexy, she decided. Except for the flood of color that rose to her cheeks every other second.

She hesitated, then opened the door to her room. She could hear Griffin speaking, hear a female voice, and another male voice. Griffin was in the kitchen, making coffee, it seemed.

She paused, listening.

“You think that there are a number of people, all of them assigned to randomly attack people?” Devin Lyle was saying. Vickie had met her—and Rocky—just briefly, earlier during the day. She’d instantly liked Devin. They had a lot in common. Even if they’d grown up in very different cities, they had both been born in Massachusetts, steeped in the history of the state, come and gone, seen the good and the bad—and still loved it as home.

“I get how you figure it might be a number of people, but...why? I’ve been thinking about it since you were so convinced that the young man who died had to be one of many,” Devin finished.

“I don’t know. Gut feeling. I can’t help it. But from the beginning, someone has been making a statement. That poem. Attacking people without killing them...thank God they’re not dead!”